“T’was the eighteenth of April…” and we returned to Cincinnati to celebrate with our friends the Achs. Our evening started with a “Mad Men” event at the Hamilton County Memorial Hall, great little bites, an open bar and toute la ville. Dress for the evening ranged from currently chic to fabulously Fifties, and everything in between. Being an event at the Memorial Hall the entertainment featured a band and singer who serenaded us with wonderful oldies, featuring tunes made famous by Sinatra, Damone, and Milady’s all-time favorite, Bobby Darin. The performance space is simultaneously intimate and spacious. The acoustics were wonderful, and sitting only a short distance from the stage created a wonderful bond with the entertainers. Being able to see facial expressions and also be far enough away that one could get a sense of the entire venue was enchanting. After the concert there was dancing and more liquid merriment and suddenly I was reconsidering my “humans are helpmates not hors d’oeuvres” pledge (taken centuries ago and NEVER violated). Fortunately our friends Roger and Janet picked exactly that moment to round us up and shepherd us across the park to Salazar.

Cincinnati is filled with beautiful repurposed (or artfully reconstructed) late nineteenth century buildings and Salazar is housed in one on 14th Street just off the park. There is an indoor/outdoor counter seating perhaps six close friends, a modest room filled on the right by a classic bar running two-thirds the length of the room and down the left and around the bar tables for two or four. The acoustics, in contrast to the Music Hall, are appropriately loud, making conversation more challenging – but no less interesting. The crowd looks to be young, on the hip side, and out to enjoy themselves for the evening.

We were seated immediately (I suspect because Roger was greeted as a friend and regular visitor) at a comfortable table and our young (aren’t they all these days?), knowledgable and eager waiter provided menus even as he inquired about preferences in libations. Milady chose a glass of an excellent (and extraordinarily reasonably priced) pinot noir. As Sr. Salazar brews his own beers, I opted for his delicious kolsch. Not too hoppy, enhanced with just the faintest hint of cardamom, served at the perfect temperature. A nectar of the gods? Probably not, but only because the ones I’ve met personally like their nectars from honey – much too sweet for my tastebuds. A nice winelist, reasonably priced, and a selection of wonderful beers, ales and cider provide appropriate potables.

The menu is billed as “New American” but that doesn’t do it justice. The cuisine at Salazar is chef-driven, I suspect very much locally sourced, eclectic and extraordinary. Both Roger and I tried to order the shrimp ceviche – sadly there was but a single serving remaining in the kitchen and he graciously allowed me to have it. Saucy shrimp,habaneros, cilantro, lime and sweet onions jumped up, invaded and completely captured my mouth, my sinuses and eventually my tummy. Balanced between the sweetness of the shrimp and the sharpness of the habeneros, the onions,lime and cilantro were perfect. Lest you think Roger suffered unduly, he enjoyed the one of the evening’s featured dishes, cod bretdande. Fresh cod, firm English green peas, mashed potatoes, butter and a couple of chef’s secret ingredients broiled exactly to the point perfection and served with “Blueoven” bread. A brief aside – anyone who has subjected her/himself to my reviews for any length of time knows that I am a Francophile, especially when it comes to bread. I may have to seriously reconsider that – Cincinnati has breads that rival or surpass any I have every enjoyed. I gather “Blueoven” is a local purveyor, if not actual baker. These breads are so good Parisians could mistake them for their own. Milady (watching her diet in preparation for our annual Bacchanal in Paris, and in recognition of the late hour) had the white asparagus salad featuring pistachios and an incredible vinegrette was thrilled, or at least her tastebuds were. She followed her salad with gravelox – cured and silky salmon that delighted her. Janet and I ordered what the menu listed as a “small oyster sandwich” which turned out to be a perfectly fried oyster set on a thin slice of daikon radish, in turn set on a mini-brioche bun, sauced with some wonderous mixture and delivered on a slice of tree (not edible). Wow! Meanwhile, Roger had the quail cassoulet. Little joints of quail, perfectly cooked in a sauce that smelled divine, even from across the table.
Sadly,the humans at the table were all short hitters, and I was unable to snag dessert. No matter, (to borrow from Douglas MacArthur) I shall return!